


The Longest Running Show on Broadway

by goldenraeofsun



Series: The Greatest City in the World [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson, Misunderstandings, Musician Steve Rogers, Russian Bucky Barnes, ballet dancer bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 16:39:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13685595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenraeofsun/pseuds/goldenraeofsun
Summary: “Natasha,” Sam began seriously, “Can you help a brother out and tell Steve if your boy James is into men?”Steve’s mouth fell open while James nearly spat out his beer all over the table. James spluttered a stream of Russian swears as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.Natasha didn’t respond at once. She swept a cool eye across the table, taking in Steve’s red face, James’s outrage, and Tony’s curiosity. “Counter offer,” she said slowly, as she turned back to Sam, “What if I tell you over dinner tomorrow night?”A beat of silence reverberated around the booth, and James abruptly stood up. He threw Sam a dark look, hissed some more Russian curses at Natasha, and stormed out of the bar.Tony nudged Steve’s side, knocking him out of his frozen state of surprise. “If you two have children, they will be the most dramatic bastards Broadway has ever seen.” He added as an afterthought, “And I’m counting Streisand.”





	The Longest Running Show on Broadway

Steve glanced around as he closed his music folder, ears catching on the last of the sounds from the departing audience overhead. He tried to block out the canned music echoing around the orchestra pit, some instrumental version of All That Jazz.

Sam caught his eye over the edge of his music stand. “Drinks at Shield. You down?” he asked the room at large, pointing with the mouthpiece of his clarinet. His alto and soprano saxes were already packed up and ready to go by his feet.

Clint briefly gave the thumbs up as he cleaned the spit out of his head joint. The body of his piccolo sat in his open case on his lap. His soprano sax was tucked neatly under his chair, while the case containing his tenor was haphazardly chair-adjacent.

Thor’s voice boomed above Steve’s head, “Aye, I could use a refreshment! Let me put away Mjolnir, and we shall be off.” Thor patted his crash cymbal lovingly, and the hollow echo thrummed through the orchestra pit of the Ambassador Theatre.

Sam grinned at him. “My man,” he said heartily as he got up to high-five Thor. “Wanda?”

Wanda tossed him a regretful look as she gathered her music and picked up her bass clarinet. “My brother is in town,” she explained with a small grin. “Maybe next time?”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Sam said warningly.

Tony raised a hand as he snapped the latches shut on his trumpet case. “I’ll get first round. Is Pepper still in the building?”

Rhoads looked up from where he was testing a sticky valve on his trumpet. “I think so.”

Sam turned around. “You down? Bruce?”

Bruce looked up from his phone screen, which he had propped up on the music stand. The last song ended with thirty-two bars of rest for the banjo part, so he usually spent his time quietly catching up on the latest science and technology news and scoping out potential music students. “Sure,” he said distractedly. “Why not?”

Steve hefted his trombone case upright and smiled at Sam. “I’m free.”

“Am I missing anyone?” Sam asked, deliberately not lingering on Strange’s back. His cape-like coat billowed majestically up the stairs out of the orchestra pit as he left with his precious violin in tow. Sam glanced over at the empty space where T’Challa usually stood behind Strange’s chair with his bass in their tiny strings section, a slight frown furrowing his brow. His eyes fell on percussion. “Tic Tac?”

Thor looked around for his fellow percussionist, eyes narrowing on Scott’s abandoned triangle, cow bell, tambourine, and other assorted instruments. “I think he is in the restroom.”

"How about Natalia Romanova?" Clint asked over the zip of his instrument case closing.

“Who’s Natalia?” Sam asked, not looking entirely thrilled at a new person joining their after-show ritual.

“I think she has a part in the Tango? New this season. She seems nice – and she doesn’t know anybody.”

“Dancer?” Sam asked, now intrigued. “Sure.”

Steve got up and carried his trombone to their storage lockers in the back.

“I’ll grab Scott,” Clint said. He glanced over at Steve, the only orchestra member standing up. “You want to get Natalia? She’s probably in the practice room.”

“What does she look like?”

“Redhead,” Clint said. “Looks like she could kill a man with a toothpick and a stiletto.”

Steve nodded and made his way through the winding grey tunnels behind the stage into the rehearsal space. He passed a long row of costumes, skimpy numbers from the Cell Block Tango, blocky 20s suits from Razzle Dazzle. Props were stacked haphazardly in corners that would be cleaned up later. As he got nearer the practice room, he paused at the sound of music. Steve hovered doorway, transfixed by the scene before him.

The sound system was playing a modern piece, jarring bursts of violin and a low melody in the background. The room smelled like all the dancers’ quarters, a mild odor of human sweat intermingled with the sharp scent of Windex that the cleaning crew sprayed on every inch of the floor to ceiling mirrors that covered every wall. Two dancers flitted about the room, moving as one synchronous body. A redhead, who must be Natalia, and a dark-haired man. While the redhead was striking, the man was mesmerizing. Muscles straining, he curved and bent around Natalia, filling in her negative space so the dynamic pair was constantly in balance. With practiced, precise movements, he wove around her, the perfect compliment.

Steve’s eyes drank in the scene playing out before him, his gaze catching every so often on the view from the back mirrors.

The two dancers looked happy. They didn’t wear the fake show smiles that Steve had grown used to on the spare nights he could get away to see a show that didn’t feature a merry murderess row. They were smiling, it seemed, just from the joy of the dance and each other.

Then the man flubbed a catch, and Natalia dipped slightly in his arms. She chided him loudly in a burst of Russian.

In response, the man dropped her again, nearly to the floor.

She extricated herself gracefully from his hold, her expression regressing into a pout as she launched into an unmistakable lecture.

The man groaned, straightening up to his full height as he regarded her with fond amusement.

Steve dallied for another moment, jerking around at the sound of footsteps and Sam’s voice calling, “Damn, Rogers, you get lost or something?”

All three looked up at the same time.

At Steve’s elbow, Sam balked at the sight of the two dancers too.

“Can I help you?” the redhead asked slowly as she stretched her arms above her head.

Sam sucked in a slow breath, eyes going wide as he zeroed in on her extended torso and the way her curtain of red hair swept across her face.

Next to her, the male dancer’s eyes left Steve for the first time to narrow at Sam. He glowered, the muscles jaw clenching. It only enhanced the firm line of his chin.

Sam ignored him, or, most likely, did not notice him at all if the dazed expression on his face was any indication.

“Are you Natalia?” Steve asked once it was clear that Sam wasn’t going to be speaking anytime soon. At her slow nod, he continued, “I’m Steve and that’s Sam.” He strode forward to offer his hand to shake. “Clint sent me?”

“Oh,” she said, a slow smile spreading across her face. “The flutist?”

“Yeah.” Steve offered his hand to her companion too.

The other man took it, his wide blue eyes raking up and down Steve’s face as they continued to shake hands. He opened his mouth, and Steve was only a little taken aback by the stream of Russian that came out.

Steve glanced at Natalia, a little helplessly. She smiled wider. “That’s James,” she said helpfully.

James, by now a bright red, opened his mouth and then closed it again without saying anything.

“He said that he’s pleased to meet you,” Natalia said helpfully.

Steve straightened a little, conscious of his posture between the two dancers in front of him. “Clint wants to know if you’d like to come out with us. Since tomorrow’s Monday and our only day off, we tend to go out Sunday nights to unwind.”

Sam cleared this throat. “Just a couple of drinks,” he repeated.

Natalia turned to James, who muttered something in Russian under his breath, once again turning a hostile gaze towards Sam.

Natalia was unperturbed. “Can James come?” she asked. “I’d love to go.”

“I don’t see why not,” Steve said slowly, his eyes drawn once again to James’s face. “None of us know Russian, though.”

“That shouldn’t be an issue.” Natalia waved her hand dismissively as James continued to gape at him. “Give us ten minutes?”

“Sure,” Steve said with an easy smile. “You can meet us out back. We’re going to Shield, it’s at 5th and 45th.”

* * *

Steve returned to the table, carrying second beers for himself and Sam. Because their party was so large, they had to split up over two booths. Tony, Pepper who was also in the chorus, Rhodes, Thor, and Bruce sat at one, and Steve, Sam, Scott, Clint, Natalia, and James sat at another.

Sam gratefully took the beer from Steve and nodded over to where Clint was ineffectively flirting with Natalia – who had insisted they call her Natasha by the time they sat down – egged on by Scott and glowered at by James. “So what’s the deal with those two?” Sam asked, pitching his voice low.

Steve shrugged and took a sip of his beer. “She was practicing with him when I found them, and he tagged along. You saw.”

“I don’t like him.”

Steve snorted. “Just ask if she’s single. You know Clint’s just kidding. He’s got that weird thing with Laura.”

“Clint’s not who I’m worried about,” Sam said darkly, throwing James a dirty look.

James raised a single eyebrow in question, a challenge if Steve ever saw one.

Sam turned away, glaring at his beer.

Steve met James’ questioning gaze and tipped his head questioningly at Natasha, who was busy calling over the waiter. 

James pursed his lips and slid his gaze over to where Sam was still brooding into his drink. He frowned, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

Steve offered him a hesitant smile and thumbs up.

“What the fuck?” Sam hissed as he jabbed Steve in the ribs with his elbow. “Stop it.”

“Hey!” Steve said, dodging out of the way. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw James snicker into his whiskey on the rocks. “I’m just being a good wingman.”

“You are just being a dork,” Sam said, scowling. He cast a surreptitious glance at Natasha to see if she saw any of that, but she was busy ordering a round of vodka shots for the table. Clint cheered as the waitress swept away, and Scott groaned into his hands, muttering about Cassie’s softball game in Central Park at nine tomorrow morning.

“Oh, fuck you,” Steve said, shoving Sam lightly with his shoulder. “You ask her, since I’m so shit at it.”

“Maybe I will,” Sam said, a daring glint in his eye. He tipped his head back and chugged about half of his beer. “Watch this, man.” Without further ado, he got up and clambered right over James’ lap and squeezed himself next to Natasha.

“Goddamn,” Steve said faintly, his face splitting into a wide smile as he watched James’ expression turn from vaguely amused to extremely harassed.

“Can you move?” Sam had the gall to ask, making shooing motions with his hand to get his point across.

James stared at him for a beat too long. “No,” he said shortly.

* * *

After their third round of drinks, Sam said to Natasha, “I haven’t see you on the circuit before. So where do you come from?”

“Originally, Volgograd,” she said. “But I trained at the Moscow conservatory for ballet.”

“But your true calling is musical theater?” Scott asked, brows furrowed.

“And all that jazz,” Natasha said, lips curling at her awful joke.

Steve asked, “When did you start at the show?”

Natasha took a sip of her drink, smiling up at the waitress as she arrived with a round of shots. After taking one, she said, “Only two weeks ago.”

“And before Chicago?”

“I did an off-Broadway revival of Movin’ Out for a couple of months,” she said with a shrug. “The dancing was nice, but now I can sing.”

“You can?” Sam muttered fervently as he downed his shot.

Steve cast a glance at James, who had finished his whiskey and was eyeing shot on the table closest to him. Steve had already claimed his but hadn’t drank it yet. Instead, he had been steadily working through his beer. He reached over and nudged the glass over towards James, with what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

James picked it up tentatively, meeting Steve’s gaze.

Steve set down his mostly-empty beer and raised the shot glass. “Cheers!”

“Ypa,” James said, echoing his smile.

Steve’s throat burned as the liquor went down, settling uncomfortably with the two beers he’d drank and an energy bar that he’d eaten during intermission. He coughed, eyes watering only a little. Thankfully, the vodka stayed down.

James reached over and thumped him once on the back, leaning over so he could see Steve’s face clearly.

“I’m fine,” Steve gasped, embarrassed at getting caught taking his liquor like a teetotaler freshman at his first dorm party. “Not my usual, is all.”

James cast him one more concerned look before leaning across Sam, further into his space than strictly necessary, and tapping Natasha on the shoulder. Sam shot him a scandalized look that went deliberately ignored as James said, “воды,” and jerked his head at Steve’s direction.

Natasha shot them both a confused look before flagging the waitress down again.

Sam turned around too. “You okay man?”

“I’m fine,” Steve said, only a little red in the face now. “Went down the wrong pipe.”

“Here,” Natasha said as she handed him a pint full of water. “Drink slow.”

“I’ve had a shot before guys,” Steve muttered sullenly as he obeyed her direction.

“A likely story,” Clint said loftily. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drinking anything other than beer.”

“I have a high tolerance,” Steve argued, wiping water from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not my fault if I don’t want to waste my money on expensive liquor when I don’t even like the taste.”

“It really wasn’t that expensive,” Natasha demurred.

Steve rolled his eyes, catching James’s gaze, who still looked worried. “I’m fine,” he repeated as he picked up his abandoned beer.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, what the hell was up with you during the Tango?” Clint asked, turning to Scott. “You nearly missed the Spread Eagle cue.”

Scott grimaced. “I was, uh, texting the ex. Cassie’s game is tomorrow, and I didn’t know if I needed to bring snacks or something.”

“You were texting during the performance?” Natasha asked, eyebrows raised.

Sam snorted. “Do you know how many shows we’ve done? Some of us can do our parts in our sleep,” he said, casting a pointed look at Scott, who shrugged.  “I swear, if I die and go to hell, they’ll just play All that Jazz on repeat – but just Tony’s solo.”

Steve grinned. “For me it would be the hook in Mama. I always get that stuck in my head.”

“True,” Sam acknowledged sympathetically.  “What about you, Natasha?”

She didn’t answer at once. “Jellicle Songs,” she said, frowning. “I hate Cats. And Andrew Lloyd Weber.”

“Amen to that.” Scott raised his beer in a toast. “I did Cats for a summer at a local theatre in Jersey. Never again.”

Sam followed up with the time a chorus member in Kiss Me Kate misjudged a leap during Some Like It Hot and ended up with a broken ankle in the orchestra pit. Her understudy, apparently, wouldn’t shut up for a whole week about how she had told the principle cast member to break a leg that night.

Natasha topped Sam when she told them about a ballet performance in Berlin. She had a dramatic exit at the end of Act I, but she had only been to the theatre twice, so she took a wrong turn and instead of ending up backstage, she found herself locked out in the back alley. They only noticed three minutes into intermission when she didn’t show up for her costume change.

And then Scott killed them all with, “I forgot my music when I subbed in last minute on opening night. I kind of improved some of the opening and all of Act II.” He grinned sheepishly. “Our conductor just about murdered me for that one.”

Steve felt only slightly buzzed four beers in and very happy by the time Natasha had to get up to visit the ladies room. Once everyone had resettled in their seats after letting her out, Sam cast them all a significant look. “Level with me, what are my chances?”

“Pretty decent,” Scott said. Steve nodded along in agreement.

“She single, you think?” Sam asked, barely tilting his head in James’s direction.

“Looks like it,” Clint said with a shrug. He said very quickly, barely glancing at James, “Table full of dudes, I figure she’d mention a boyfriend if one was in the picture.”

James coughed lightly into his fist.

“You got something to say?” Sam asked, turning to him with just a hint of steel in his voice.

James pursed his lips. “Hет.”

“Just how much English do you know, man?” Sam asked pointedly.

“He knows enough,” came Natasha’s voice from above their heads. She smiled down at them. “Hey boys.”

Sam glanced up and quickly got out of his seat to let Natasha back in. James quickly followed suit, laying a hand on the small of her back to guide her.

Once everyone had settled back down, James blithely sipped his drink as Sam attempted to bore holes in the side of his skull with his eyes.

Steve, who couldn’t hold it in any longer, hid his snort behind a cough.

One corner of James’s mouth lifted into a barely-there smile, and he shifted slightly in his seat, his blue eyes never leaving the glass in his hands.

* * *

Steve set his trombone case down as he looked up at the marquee above. He’d been to the Majestic Theatre several times before, but never for a steady gig. After all, Phantom of the Opera had had a monopoly on the theatre since 1988. Steve had only played when called to sub in, as he was doing this afternoon for a Sunday matinée. Even though Peggy had already given him the tickets for her first night on Tuesday, he was happy to get a glimpse beforehand and help out.

“Steve!”

Steve smiled and raised his hand not holding his trombone in a wave as Peggy hurried over.

“Hey, Peg,” he said warmly.

“I’m so glad you could make it darling,” she said as she walked him around to the stage exit. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course, anything for my best girl,” Steve said with a grin. “I’m just happy that the conductor didn’t pick a replacement himself and took recommendations.”

Peggy smothered a laugh. “Howard can be… selective. But he didn’t have to be, because you are simply the best.”

Steve ducked his head to hide his blushing cheeks. “Come on, Peg. Stop pulling my leg.”

Peggy flashed him a dazzling smile over her shoulder as she pushed open the heavy door leading to backstage. “With any luck, you’ll have a good time tonight,” she said. “Some of our old friends are down in the pit – Gabe is covering the piano. Dum Dum’s on percussion. And Jim Morita, if you can believe it. He’s down there too.”

“Sounds good,” Steve said, carefully maneuvering his large case down a cramped stairwell to the pit level. “My god, it’s been so long since I’ve seen Dum Dum.”

“Well, you can be forgiven for that,” Peggy told him smartly as she absentmindedly waved to a couple stagehands who recognized her. “He got back two months ago from touring with Phantom.”

“How’d that go?” Steve asked.

“Well enough,” Peggy said with a shrug. “You know Dum Dum. He goes a bit mad if he plays one show too long.”

Steve nodded along, stopping as she paused outside the entrance of the pit. The nondescript black doors, wide enough to admit a timpani or two, were thrown wide open. They could hear various instruments being warmed up, and Steve could even make out Gabe’s distinctive loud laugh over the noise. They paused as a flute arpeggio trilled out.

“And Dum Dum’s friend came in from overseas a couple of weeks ago,” Peggy continued. “He wanted to be here to welcome him, provide a couch, and all that.”

“It’s a nice couch,” Steve said. He’d spent many nights on that couch in their senior year at the Eastman School of Music. When most of them moved back to New York City from the campus up in Rochester, Dum Dum had brought the couch down with him.

“Bucky thinks so too,” Peggy said with a shrug.

Steve frowned as he tried to place the name. “I don’t think I’ve heard of him.”

“Bucky Barnes? Dum Dum knew him growing up in Indiana,” Peggy explained. “I suppose he’s trying his hand at the big city.”

Steve snorted. “Well, he couldn’t find a better guide than Dum Dum to show him the ropes.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Peggy said, eyes twinkling. “Don’t tell him I warned you, but Dum Dum is looking for a proper tour guide, one that swings Bucky’s way if you catch my drift. All my male friends that would go for him are taken, so I’ve heard your name come up several times.”

“Dum Dum’s playing match maker now?” Steve asked with raised eyebrows.

Peggy’s red lips turned down into a scowl. “He’s been spending too much time with Angie since he got back. She’s been a bad influence.”

“Ah,” Steve said, comprehending. “And how is Angie?”

“She’s doing well,” Peggy said with a bright smile. “She’s coming on Tuesday. Apparently she can squeeze me in between auditions.” She threw up her hands dramatically.

“Actresses are pretty terrible, from what I’ve heard,” Steve said solemnly.

Peggy laughed and checked her watch. “I should get to wardrobe,” she said regretfully as she stepped away. “I’ll see you after?”

“Shield?” Steve offered. “I’ll see if I can get Dum Dum, Jim, and Gabe to come.”

“Well then,” Peggy said before turning to go, “You’ve got yourself a date. I’ll ask Angie too.”

* * *

That Sunday evening after Phantom, Steve found himself standing in the doorway of the practice room.

James noticed first, turning his head to offer Steve a slow smile as he swept Natasha into his arms again, the music swelling around them. She glanced over his way and waggled her fingers in greeting as she was spun around, completing five rotations before James’ arm caught her around the waist and dipped her between his legs. She popped up like a spring and leapt into his waiting arms, and Steve’s mouth went dry as he watched James’ bare back muscles and arms strain.

Conscious of their audience, they finished the dance with a grand flourish a minute later.

Steve clapped politely as Natasha walked over to the stereo to turn off the music.

“Steve!” she exclaimed. “How can I help you?”

“I – uh, if you’re not busy,” Steve started, eyes darting over to James, who was shrugging slowly into a tee shirt. “We’re heading out for drinks. Weekly thing, you know.”

“Oh sure!” Natasha said with a bright smile. “We were just getting some practice in, but they will kick us out sooner or later.”

“Don’t you have your own studio space?” Steve asked, frowning.

“Yes,” Natasha said, tossing her hair, this time in a short braid, over her shoulder. “But this one is closer to where James is temporarily staying, so we practice here when we can sneak him in.” She winked. “You’re not going to rat us out, are you Steve?”

“No, of course not – you’re free to – I wouldn’t,” he stuttered, gaze lingering on where James had bent down to grab a small backpack probably filled with a change of clothes. Steve gave himself a little mental shake of the head to clear it.

“Excellent,” Natasha said, her voice warm.

James ran a hand through his slightly-sweaty hair. He cast a surreptitious glance Steve’s way, and muttered a couple Russian sentences under his breath.

Natasha didn’t look impressed. She crossed her arms across her chest and said, in English, “Suck it up. You need to get out more.” She turned back to Steve. “James will come with us?”

It didn’t sound like much of a request.

Steve reddened and tried not to nod his head too forcefully. “Of course,” he said brightly.

This second time Natasha and James joined them for post-performance drinks, their party was significantly smaller. Rhoads had begged off since he was playing in a concert the next evening and needed to get a good night’s sleep. Several of Clint’s flute students were putting on a recital first thing Sunday, and he didn’t want to be too hungover to listen to tweens butcher Chopin and Handel. Thor apparently had a rock concert that he couldn’t miss and called in sick. His replacement, Valkyrie, said she had other plans.

“Okay, what’s with tall, dark, and silent?” Tony asked as they exited the theatre and made their way to Shield.

Since it was Midtown, and it should be legal to shoot people walking five abreast and block the whole fucking sidewalk, they had broken up into groups for the walk to the bar. Sam, Natasha, and James walked ahead, with Tony and Steve trailing a couple of paces behind.

“That’s James, Natasha’s friend. He went with us last time,” Steve said, as he sidled closer to Tony to avoid hip-checking a hot dog and pretzel cart. “He’s Russian.”

“No English at all?”

“None so far,” Steve said, frowning. “It looks like he must understand some, though.”

Tony snorted. “Hard to look like anything with that dead-eyed glare of his.”

Steve turned to him, tearing his gaze away from James’s ass. “What?”

 “I think Iron Curtain is into you,” Tony said seriously as he skirted around a homeless man’s cardboard sign and plastic cup. “You should tap that. The Cold War is over, after all.”

Steve rolled his eyes more out of habit than anything else. “You’re seeing things, Tony.”

“Am I? Am I?” Tony asked. “I know fuck me eyes when I see ‘em. That guy wants your purple mountain majesties, if you catch my drift.”

“That makes no sense,” Steve told him, frowning. “And that’s a shitty metaphor, even for you.”

“You’re being deliberately dense,” Tony said. “I am disappointed in you.” He turned away, leaving Steve behind as he picked up the pace to get within earshot, and called, “Sam Wilson! What the fuck was up with that so-called entrance in All That Jazz? I thought you said you could play it with two hands tied behind your back, don’t think I forgot!”

* * *

This time, their party was small enough that they could all cram into one booth. Throughout the night, Steve kept catching James’s eye over the rim of his glass of beer. And even if he missed a loaded stare or two, Tony helpfully kicked him in the shin to let him know.

Steve volunteered to get up and get the next round. There was a rowdy party in the backroom – some office party with awkward people milling around in business casual – so the waitstaff was a little strained. To Steve’s surprise, Sam got up with him.

At the bar, Sam pleaded low voice, “You gotta take one for the team, man.” He raised a hand to catch the attention of the one-eyed bartender who took their orders with his typical scowl.

“What?” Steve asked, baffled once the bartender had walked a little way down the bar to fill their order.

“I can’t score with Natasha with her big Russian bodyguard in the way,” Sam grumbled, leaning both elbows on the bar. “It’s incredible he has time to cockblock me with the way he’s been looking at you all night.”

Steve blushed. “That’s not – he hasn’t –”

“Don’t play stupid, Rogers,” Sam said severely, raising his head. “You are so far from a dumb blonde it isn't funny.”

Steve grimaced. “He is attractive,” he admitted, going redder still.

“Then what’s the problem? He seems into you.”

Steve sighed. “Sam,” he started, grabbing a nearby napkin to worry between his fingers, “you know me and my track record with the kind of relationship you’re proposing.”

Sam huffed an impatient breath. “From what you’ve told me, after that fiasco with Sharon, you’ve had all of two one-night stands.”

“They all ended badly,” Steve said shortly. He bent over to pick up pieces of napkin that had missed the bar they were leaning against and had fallen to the floor, feeling more than a little silly but unable to leave the bits of litter for the waitstaff to pick up after him.

He straightened up to Sam’s pleading face.

“That’s not enough times to for sure say that one-night stands aren’t your thing,” Sam said immediately as Steve deposited the paper shreds next to what was left of the napkin.

“Yes, it is,” Steve said firmly. “I’m not doing that again.”

“Third time’s the charm?” Sam tried.

“No.”

Sam sighed loudly. “Then not a one-night stand. Who’s to say he’s not boyfriend material?” he hedged, even as his face said the exact opposite.

They both glanced behind them to see that James was currently giving Sam the stink-eye.

“Really,” Steve asked wryly, snickering slightly, as he turned back to Sam and crossed his arms across his chest. “Do you think he’s boyfriend material? He hasn’t spoken more than two words tonight. And I don’t think I have high standards, but I’m going to set my bar at being able to carry a conversation.”

Sam glowered. “You are very picky, Steve. You have the highest fucking standards I’ve ever seen. Not that you can’t get away with it,” he added, jabbing Steve’s nearest bicep with a grin.

Steve shrugged.

 “Come on, man,” Sam said as the bartender pushed over the first half of their drinks. “Aren’t you supposed to be my wingman?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean throwing myself under the bus,” Steve argued. “Look, James is just protective of Natasha.”

“He doesn’t have to be!” Sam said loudly, throwing his hands in the air. He twisted around, craning his neck to see if anyone at the booth had noticed. He relaxed as the conversation carryied on as normal.

“How does he know that? Just nicely ask her to dinner.” He clapped Sam bracingly on the back. “If she wants to go out with you, all the bodyguards in the world won’t stop her. She doesn’t seem like that sort of lady.”

“I guess so,” Sam said, only sounding a little doubtful.

Steve picked up three of the drinks to carefully carry back to the booth. After everyone’s glasses had been divvyed out to the proper drinker and they’d taken their seats, Sam cleared this throat after a significant look in Steve’s direction.

Steve sat up a little straighter in his chair, ready to support Sam as he went out on a limb. He nodded encouragingly.

“Natasha,” he began seriously, eyes never leaving her face, “Can you help a brother out and tell Steve if your boy James is into men?”

Steve’s mouth fell open while James nearly spat out his beer all over the table. James spluttered what could only be swears as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He set his glass down hastily on the table. It wobbled, and Natasha reached out instinctively with a steadying hand.

“Sam!” A muscle ticked in Steve’s jaw. “What the hell?”

Sam ignored him, eyes never leaving Natasha’s face.

She didn’t respond at once. She swept a cool eye across the table, taking in Steve’s red face, James’s blank expression on lock-down, Tony’s pure curiosity. “Counter offer,” she said slowly, “What if I tell you over dinner tomorrow night?”

A beat of silence reverberated around the booth, and James abruptly stood up. He waved a pointed finger in Natasha’s face, said some very stern Russian, threw Sam a dark look, and stormed out.

Tony nudged Steve’s side, knocking him out of his frozen state of surprise. “If you two have children, they will be the most dramatic bastards Broadway has ever seen.” He added as an afterthought, “And I’m counting Streisand.”

* * *

Steve’s face hurt from smiling so much, and his hands had long gone numb with clapping. But he couldn’t stop now, even though all the cast of the Phantom of the Opera had taken their bows. He stood up as Peggy and her Raoul, an actor named Jack Thompson that Steve didn’t know, strode back out and gestured for the audience to thank the musicians. If Steve craned his neck, he could just spot Gabe and Dum Dum under the spotlight turned down to the pit.

Next to him, Angie wolf-whistled so loudly that several people turned around in scandalized alarm. Steve gave an obnoxiously loud cheer as soon as they turned back around.

Once the applause had died down and a recorded instrumental of Music of the Night music began to play the audience out, Steve and Angie made their way down to the orchestra level from their seats in the middle of the balcony. They wound through the crowd until they could reach the backstage area, and all Angie had to do was flash the usher a winning smile, and they were let in.

As usual after a performance, backstage was a state of carefully organized chaos. Actors skittered past, covered in sweat and with matted hair, and stage hands barked orders to get everything ready for the next performance the next day.

“You were wonderful,” Angie gushed as they rounded the final corner to Peggy’s dressing room.

Dottie, who played Carlotta, was seated at the next mirror over and popping a handful of almonds into her mouth with one hand as she ran a hand to fluff up her hair. “Hello Angie,” she said as she got up to go. She spared a lingering look for Steve.

“Hey Dot, good show tonight.” Angie said with a grin. She turned back to Peggy. “You were the best Christine yet.”

 “Angie!” Peggy said with a wide smile, wig gone and bare-faced of stage makeup. Compared to Dottie, she looked radiant, even after a three-hour performance. Understandable, since Dottie had been at Phantom for at least two seasons, and it was Peggy’s first night.

Angie rushed forward and pressed a smacking kiss to Peggy’s cheek as Dottie quietly left. “English, they couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I loved it,” Steve said once Angie let him get a word in edgeways. “You were fantastic.”

Peggy extricated herself from Angie’s embrace and went over to offer him a hug too. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll be five minutes, and then I can meet you outside?”

“Of course,” Angie said as she turned to Steve. “We’ll round up the usual crowd, right?”

“Sure,” he said with a grin.

Steve would take the musicians and Angie the actors, it was decided. He followed the signs down down to the orchestra pit, and after a hearty round of congratulations for a good performance, Dum Dum, Gabe, and Jim were good to leave. As they made their way to the stage exit, Dum Dum pulled Steve aside as Gabe and Jim went along ahead.

“I got a favor to ask you,” Dum Dum said in a low voice.

Steve frowned. “Is this about your friend from out of town? Peggy already warned me.”

“Goddamn that woman,” Dum Dum said, shaking his head. “Can’t share anything with her.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I’m not looking to date anyone right now,” Steve said, deliberately pushing aside any thoughts of gravelly-voiced Russian swears and terribly blue eyes.

“You sure?” Dum Dum asked, eyes narrowing skeptically. “Because what Clint Barton told me, you’re back on the market.”

“How the hell do you know Clint?” Steve demanded.

“Christ, Steve,” Dum Dum said, laughing. “We’re in musical theatre. How does anyone know anyone? Can you even name all the shows we’ve done together?”

“On Broadway or off?” Steve asked, pulling a face. “And are we counting other gigs?”

“All of them,” Dum Dum said with a roll of his eyes. “And with those shows, I bet we had half the orchestra in common. This place is like one big hyper-competitive family.”

Steve let out a reluctant laugh as they lingered in the doorway to the street. Ahead of them, Jim and Gabe were already walking out. “I guess so. What the hell has Clint been telling you?”

“Just that you’re finally over Peg’s cousin and have been looking for someone new,” Dum Dum said as he stood aside to let Jack Thompson out of the theatre.

Steve groaned, loud enough to be heard over the cheers from the assembled tourists and fans waiting for Broadway stars to exit outside. Jack’s exit went over well, if the noise was any indication. “Sharon and I broke up a year ago.”

“And when I left seven months ago, you were still moping around your apartment playing depressing sonatas on your piano,” Dum Dum said severely.

“That was seven months ago!” Steve repeated incredulously.

Dum Dum waggled a disapproving finger in Steve’s face.  “You’re a stubborn son of a bitch. To be honest, I expected you to be moping for another year.”

“Fuck you,” Steve said, shoving him half-heartedly with a laugh. “We were never that serious anyway.”

Dum Dum cast him a loaded look. “But if you’re looking to get serious, I know someone…”

Steve pulled a face. “I hate being set up.”

Dum Dum grinned. “Come on, what’s the harm? I can vouch, he’s a good guy.”

Steve hesitated. “Maybe. Text me his information later?”

“I can do you one better,” Dum Dum said heartily as he slapped Steve on the back. He gave him a little shove towards the open door where Gabe and Jim were talking with a dark-haired man with his back to the doorway. “Bucky’s waiting outside.”

Steve released a loud sigh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dum Dum ignored him and gave him another little push to the door.

The fans peered curiously at his face before dismissing him. Steve pushed through them to get closer to their little group, Jim, Gabe, Angie, the stage manager Jarvis, Jack Thompson, and this Bucky.  Thankfully, only Jack seemed to be attracting a modicum of attention from the small group squashed around the stage door exit.

“Bucky! I want you to meet Steve,” Dum Dum said grandly as they approached.

“Dum Dum – if this is you pawning me off on someone else, I will stay on your couch until kingdom fucking come,” Bucky said in warning as he turned around, and Steve barely had time to wonder at the almost-familiarity of his voice before he caught sight of his very familiar face.

Steve blinked. “James?”

* * *

“Okay,” Steve said as he cornered James at Shield’s bar. “You said you would explain. Explain.” Behind them, the rest of their party was spilling out of the back room, an impromptu after party for Peggy’s debut. Daniel Sousa, the Phantom, had turned up before long, as well as another half-dozen people. Steve had ignored them all, including Natasha who had also come, hustling James straight to the bar so they could talk. The back room was loud enough that their conversation wouldn’t be overheard by anyone except the one-eyed bartender.

James spun with his nearly full-beer between his hands, biting his lip. “I don’t know where to start,” he admitted.

Steve rolled his eyes. “I’m not mad,” he said as he took a sip of his drink, just a beer. He wouldn’t be doing any vodka shots anytime soon. “I just don’t understand. You speak English?”

James nodded, eyes not leaving his beer, a far cry from all the staring he had been doing the past two times he had been in the same room as Steve. “My mom’s American – I spent almost every summer in Indiana with my grandparents growing up. That’s how I know Dum Dum.”

“And your name?”

James snorted. “James Buchanan Barnes,” he said with a wry expression. “Bucky for short to everyone who’s not Natasha Romanov. She said she’d consider calling me Bucky on her deathbed.”

Steve chuckled into his drink. He shook his head. “And she knew you understood every single word we were saying.”

Bucky shrugged. “She likes to mess with people. It’s her thing.”

“And you went along with it?”

Bucky bit his lip. “I – ah – it seemed like a good idea at the time?”

Steve mulled that over, noting the dying twinkle in Bucky’s eye. He took another pull of his beer, reaching for a napkin to wipe his mouth. “And all the staring… at me?” Steve asked hesitantly. “Was that just to mess with me too?”

Bucky ducked his head, shaking it slowly. “No,” he said slowly. “I wasn’t trying to fuck with you.” He looked up, his expression rueful. “I grew up in small towns in Russia and Indiana. I didn’t – uh, picking up men wasn’t really in the cards for a long time. And in ballet school, everyone was mostly gay, so there wasn’t a shortage like before and I didn’t have to be in the closet, but the strategy was a bit different. Everyone was so competitive - great stress relief, but not great relationships.”

Steve nodded.

Bucky sighed. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he said quietly before taking a long drink from his beer. “I’m not really used to any of this.”

“Any of what?”

Bucky shrugged, hunching his shoulders over his glass. “Anything out of the European dance circuit, really. And getting used to America full-time has been… interesting. I’ve only ever been here for a month or a month at most. And Indiana is very different from New York City.”

“I’ll bet,” Steve said with a grin. “But better, right?”

Bucky looked up at him.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” Steve said after a beat. “In case you were worried about that.”

“Oh,” Bucky said blankly. He swallowed anxiously, looking up at Steve. He licked his lips. “That’s good.”

Steve slowly leaned closer, making eye contact the whole time to telegraph his intentions and give Bucky plenty of time to pull away if he wanted. But the only sign he received from Bucky was a quick, apprehensive intake of breath before he surged forward for the last inch to seal their mouths together. Bucky tasted of his nearly-finished beer, and Steve raised a hand to scrape the pads of his fingers against the stubble lining Bucky’s sharp jawline. Eyes closed, he felt around for the back of Bucky’s neck and gently pulled him closer, receiving a breath of laughter against his lips in response.

When they broke apart, Steve paused, listening for any sign that they’d been spotted or were going to make a scene. But if anyone could be trusted to hold a room, it was Peggy Carter, so it seemed no one was any the wiser as to what was going on at the bar.

“Dinner – with me – Saturday?” Steve asked with a slow smile. “I think I can get the night off.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back down and saying, “I’d like that.”

Steve’s grin widened. “Maybe we could do a show after? It’s not the Majestic Theatre, but I know a great off-Broadway production that none of my friends are playing in.”

Bucky chuckled, and Steve tried not to react as he felt Bucky’s hand grasp his, tentatively at first, and then with a firmer squeeze, under the bar. “I don’t mind if your friends are there.”

Steve laced their fingers together. “I don’t want word getting back to Sam.”

“Nat’s probably going to tell him,” Bucky said, nodding his head towards the back room.

Steve’s pulse quickened, a fucking brilliant plan coming together in his head. “Will you ask her not to?”

Bucky’s incredulous smile that had been plastered on his face since their kiss, faded. “I can do that,” he said, glancing down at the bar and starting to pull his hand away. “Nobody has to know. That’s – I’ve done that before. It’s no problem.”

Steve clung on tight as he studied Bucky’s face closely. “Because I’d hate to spill the beans too soon and miss getting Sam back for that stunt he pulled before asking Natasha out.”

“Get Sam back?” Bucky echoed, expression clearing.

“He wanted me to ask you out to clear his way to Natasha,” Steve said sourly. “And when I told him I didn’t want to date a mute Russian stranger, he apparently didn’t take no for an answer.”

“Ah,” Bucky said as he took a long pull from his drink. “And a half-American friend-of-a-friend?”

Steve gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “That’s a totally different story.”

“So you’re totally okay if I scare the shit out of your best friend for dating my best friend?” Bucky asked dubiously.

Steve grinned. “Sam should know better than to mess with me. You’d think he’d have learned after all these years.”

Bucky let his head hang disbelievingly. “I underestimated you, Steve Rogers.”

Steve shrugged as he picked up his beer. “Most people do.”

“And I’m guessing that sooner or later they regret it?” Bucky asked, eyebrows raised.

Steve merely shot him a knowing look over the rim of his drink.

Bucky leaned forward to capture Steve’s mouth in another kiss, this time quick and smacking. “We’re going to have so much fun together.”

Steve raised his glass to clink against Bucky’s, and the sound was nearly drowned out by their laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> The Phantom of the Opera has run 12,502 performances as of 12/31/17
> 
> Chicago (1996 Revival) has run 8,827 performances as of 12/31/17


End file.
